


Drag Me Down (and hold me under)

by NoxumBoots



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Chaos Level: Bull's Chargers, Explicit Language, F/F, Identity Issues, M/M, Merman Dorian, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pirates, Sailing, Self-Indulgent, Sickfic? For a few chapters maybe, Siren Dorian, Sirens, Temporary Character Death, Trigger Warning: Drowning, Whump, and poor descriptions of such
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:27:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24112774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoxumBoots/pseuds/NoxumBoots
Summary: While he was thinking, there was a whistle and a yell. A cannonball hit the ship above, sending it rocking and losing pieces of itself. A large shadow fell with it. From below, Dorian could see a rack of impressive horns on the being’s head: a qunari.Ah, lovely. A meal of a special sort. He couldn’t recall ever having qunari before. With a swish of his tail he was swimming up, grabbing the stunned creature by its thick torso and dragging it down.Bull's Chargers are an infamous mercenary group that patrol the waters of Rivain. One day, they gain a scaly shadow who can't seem to decide between eating and befriending them. Questions arise, and everything goes downhill from there.An Adoribull fic featuring adventure, carnal desires, fish, and finding identity in each other.
Relationships: Bull's Chargers & Dorian Pavus, Iron Bull & Bull's Chargers, Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 33
Kudos: 62





	1. Never Bring a Fish to a Knife Fight

**Author's Note:**

> Largely based off of fanart by imrisah on Tumblr and too much Sea of Thieves music I've listened to on repeat.

It was a boring life until the Qunari fell overboard.

His life wasn’t _horrible,_ per se. In fact, for an aquatic creature, one might call it quite nice. He stalked in tropical waters; the Rialto Bay east of Antiva was a favorite hunting spot of his. Dorian spent his days among colorful reefs and shipwrecks of the less fortunate, hidden from the world above. Most people didn’t even know he existed, and somehow that was comforting. Vain he was, but he was not eager to be caught and sold to some museum post-taxidermy.

No, there were only a few people who ever saw him, and they did not live long. For entertainment and for food, he sang to sailors as they passed by above him. He led them to sharp rocks or into a storm. Sometimes, he waited under galleon battles, watching, listening to the screaming above. Men fell overboard. Some always did. And when they did, he comforted them, curling around them like some Minrathous temptress before dragging them under. 

Sailor always tasted the best to him. It was probably the copious amounts of alcohol. Sailors had a tendency to marinate themselves. 

He collected things, shiny things, in the deep. Rings and trinkets and whatever books he found that had waterproof ink (he had a tiny library nook near Trevisto that he was quite proud of). He was becoming more and more fish-like, he supposed. Anything shiny, he went after. He dressed himself in golden necklaces and strung beads in his hair, rings on his fingers and somehow feeling a little more like he was still a surface Tevinter.

... ‘a surface Tevinter’? Why that? Why didn’t he just say ‘human’ or ‘the reckless son of a Magister’? 

Anyways, besides the point: it was dull and lonely and he was sick of it. But it was who (or what) he was now, and there was nothing to be done about it. He was _absolutely_ losing his mind. Perhaps literally. He couldn’t tell. He was frightfully lonely and found himself thinking of people as prey far too often.

What was he supposed to do, go on like this forever? Alone? Swirling in the deep until he lost the last shreds of his human thoughts?! No. No, something had to be done about it.

He just didn’t know _what_.

* * *

Qunari gunpowder had such a distinctive scent that Dorian recognized it immediately. His first thought: _What in vass is a dreadnought doing in Antiva?_

Then a piece of a barrel sank by his head, and he was awake and looking up.

They were right above him; it wasn’t a dreadnought, that was for sure. Two larger ships duking it out, a brig and a carrack, yelling and screaming and cannon fire. He was under the carrack, tail swishing. The brig seemed to be sorely losing, as half of it was taking on water and it tasted of despair. Perhaps he should go over there, get a taste of their winnings for when it eventually sank. But it was such a long distance away… was it worth it?

While he was thinking, there was a whistle and a yell. A cannonball hit the ship above, sending it rocking and losing pieces of itself. A large shadow fell with it. From below, Dorian could see a rack of impressive horns on the being’s head: a qunari.

Ah, lovely. A meal of a special sort. He couldn’t recall ever having qunari before. With a swish of his tail he was swimming up, grabbing the stunned creature by its thick torso and dragging it down. 

He got a good look at it and discovered that it was in fact a him. The qunari was shirtless and built, grey-skinned, scarred, and a bit of fat covering an iron stomach and pectorals. His face was mangled, covered by an eyepatch, with a bit of scruff on his chin.

He was in no way beautiful, and Dorian felt a surge of appreciation for the creature. He was going to be the last thing this brute ever saw. How lucky for him that he wasn’t going to die alone. He would go quietly, softly, in loving arms.

The qunari started to thrash as he realized what was happening. Dorian just smiled at him, holding tighter and dragging him further from the surface. He started to hum, unworried. The hum eventually swelled to wordless song, something he reserved for times like these, for scared prey. He knew the qunari heard it, because his flailing lessened.

Deeper down, deeper. Dorian kept singing. The qunari’s arms sank to his sides as bubbles rose around them. His grin widened. He was so close to the beast that he could smell him, musky and sweet, feel his pulse in his wrists and his chest throbbing slightly as he held his breath, it wouldn’t be long now, he could feel the qunari-

Pain burst in his side. His singing came to a screeching halt as the qunari slashed him with a knife, crimson spilling into the water around them. He’d gotten distracted. The two struggled for a minute, Dorian futily trying to constrict around him, before the brute kicked him back and swam for the surface.

He gave a frustrated yell and swam after him, but it was too late. He was winded and couldn’t swim straight with the stitch in his side. The qunari breached the surface and was pulled out.

Dorian bumped into the bottom of the boat and ground his teeth. Perfect, this was just what he needed right now; an oxman who had the gall to fight back against him, and win! Fuck. The saltwater stung his injury for a moment, a painful buzz. It wasn’t very big, but it did go deep, curving in and around his hip. It bled sluggishly, copper mixed in with the lingering scent of gunpowder.

...Kaffas. If he could smell it, sharks could. And if they could smell him, they’d come. He couldn’t fight off sharks, and he didn’t feel like dying in the next four hours, thank you. Not after _that_ embarrassing display. And swimming would only aggravate it more. He also didn’t feel like crippling himself by accident.

There was only one thing about it: stay out of the water for a few days. And the best way to do that? Hitch a ride. Ah, the irony.

Pumping his tail (ow ow ow ow), he swam along the underside of the carrack and around the rudder. He dug his claws into the wood, one, two, three! and hoisted himself. It took a few tries; he was much heavier on land than in the water, and his tail hadn’t deformed yet, but he made it up. There was a little ledge underneath the cabin’s window that he would be difficult to spot in. Perfect. Luxury ledge.

His tail left the water entirely, and he got his legs. It was easier to pull up the last stretch, and when he finally settled on the ledge, he groaned. He applied pressure to the wound as best he could (oh thank frick, it was slowing down a bit). “Kaffas,” he mumbled. The qunari fought well. This hurt like a motherfucker.

There was laughter from above, then the barking of orders and the sails were unfurled. It occurred to him, suddenly, that he had no idea where these people were going. And he’d just hitched a ride.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. He stretched out, hissing as he adjusted his position. Might as well enjoy it for what it was; a pleasure cruise. And perhaps when he was healed, he’d find a way to lure this ship into some rocks. He wanted another shot at that oxman. He’d smelled positively _divine._


	2. Grooming Is a Great Way To Feel Like a Human Being

The crew went something like this:

Bull was the captain. _The_ _Iron_ Bull, pardon him. He was the headmaster, the leader. He was also the person Dorian had tied to drag down. There was only one qunari on that ship, after all, so nobody could have a set of horns quite like his. The crew had a tendency to call him ‘Chief’, and his voice was too loud.

The first mate was a Tevinter named Krem. Dorian’s face had soured when he recognized the accent, but the lad seemed good enough. He bantered with The Iron Bull on the daily, throwing back and forth insults and jests. He also made a binding joke about Bull’s ‘man bosoms’, so Dorian guessed he might be transmasculum. 

He really missed Mae.

Stitches was both the surgeon and the quartermaster. Dorian had actually managed to catch a glimpse of his face; he was sun-kissed and seemed always exasperated at the other crewmembers (which was fair, because they all seemed idiotic). He was Fereldan as well.

Grim was the cook. So far he hadn’t muttered a single word; just grunted. He seemed friendly enough, though, and spent far too much time gazing off the railing at the horizon. He was famous for his fish pies.

Dalish and Skinner were both elves, and both gunners. He wouldn’t trust Skinner with a toothpick; she had murder in her eyes at any given moment. It was… frightening. Dalish, on the other hand, was laid back and practical. She was a mage, as well, though she claimed she was an archer. Smart girl. He could smell it from a mile away, though.

And Rocky. Oh, lord, Rocky. So much dangerous ambition packed into a tiny dwarf body. All he really knew about him was that he handled the gunpowder, and everyone onboard thought that he _shouldn’t_ handle the gunpowder. He wasn’t eager to meet him.

That made seven. Eight, if Dorian counted himself, which he really shouldn’t but it was fun to imagine himself as the hidden eigth member. He practically was; it had been a week by this point, let him have some fun with it. Besides, it wasn’t as if he didn’t pull his weight. He was helping with the waves and wind as best he could, coaxing it in the ship’s favor. They were going about two knots faster than normal, by his humble calculations. It felt good to be helpful for once. Heaven knows it’d been forever since he’d tried to help a ship _get_ to its destination, rather than try to pull it off course. It was gratifying in its own way.

Sometimes he let the ship slow down a bit, just to go hunting. The water was warming up, so they must’ve been heading towards the coast. Perhaps Antiva city, if he was lucky. The pickings were good, but sort of bland compared to sailor meat. It’s almost like his lunch was taunting him with the crew on deck, just beyond his reach on the deck. More speficially, it was taunting him with the qunari he had gotten so close to, and yet…

He ate his food angrily more often than not, and told himself ‘soon’, the moment his wound stopped tingling when he dove under the water; soon, he would crash this ship and claim what was rightfully his.

Soon.

* * *

By the time the Chargers had reached their destination, ‘soon’ had shifted to ‘eventually’. He dismounted his little ledge and watched from the water as the crew pulled up. They all seemed very happy, boisterous and feet pounding the wooden dock with enough power to scare away some of the seagulls.

Antiva City. Oh, he’d gotten so lucky. And unlucky. The city was beautiful, day in and day out, a glittering gem on the Rialto coast. It also made great wine and exceptional music. However, it was also a fishing port; that meant nets. He’d made a grave mistake of nearly getting caught in one his first time here. He’d need to stay by boat, especially during this afternoon, lest he be seen or captured by some curious fisher. 

...Two, three, four, five, six, seven… Good, all seven Chargers were going into the city. That meant he’d have time on the ship to himself. He grinned something fierce, making sure he was alone before hoisting himself back onto his ledge. Then, he flipped the latch on the cabin window and slipped inside.

The cabin was a bit messy, and- was that an axe buried in the map table? So it was. A fitting decoration for these savages. He hissed as he landed on his own two feet. Perhaps finding some elfroot would help his side. It wasn’t healing as fast as he’d like it to, and it _pricked_ even when it was out of the water. If that qunari had poisoned the knife with something slow-acting, he _swore…_

Bare feet against wood planks. He ran his fingers through his longer hair as he walked along the deck to the hatch. Perhaps there was a hairbrush here that he could use… Dalish had nice locks (similar to his, only blonde), so there had to be one onboard somewhere.

Honestly, the deck was so clean it was shining. But the interior of the ship was… well, it looked like some of the dorm rooms that his old circles had. Weapons, shirts, some odd trinkets (he told himself that he would not swipe any, he would NOT-), and a few drained mugs were scattered around. He did find a hairbrush, and after a quick inspection, it was indeed Dalish’s. No one else on the ship would have a hairbrush with a tree engraved in it.

Normally he wouldn’t be caught dead using someone else’s utensils, but ‘normally’ had off and died a long time ago. So he busied himself working out the knots, redoing some of the beads and shells in his hair. He seared the stray stubble of his chin with a bit of fire magic, as he had been doing for years. He was very cautious not to scar his face with a clumsy burn. He had nice skin. It would be a shame to see it marred. Checked his teeth (sharp as knives) and his complexion (bronze with flecks of gold dusting his cheeks). Lovely to look upon, as ever.

After he was done, he dove into the medicine cabinet in the wall and found some salve. Prophet’s laurel, spindleweed, and… vandal aria? Perfect. That would certainly do the trick. If the wound was becoming infected (which he worried it was), the salve should slow it down and speed the healing process.

He rubbed it on the area and groaned. It started out warm, then cold, sinking into the tender skin around the injury. He knew that spindleweed was a powerful soothing agent, but he didn’t realize it would work _that_ well.

He couldn’t exactly wrap the injury; the water would dissolve it almost instantly. Besides, it wasn’t open anymore. So he left it be after that and went to raid the larder. He deserved a bit of a treat.

They had little honey chips. Oh, he was in heaven. After fish, fish, and more fish, the sweets were near orgasmic. He ate a bit more than he’d first intended, including some bread, jerky, biscuits he guessed were leftover from breakfast, and some lemon juice. He was sure to clean up after himself: no evidence. Make it like he didn’t exist. 

He yawned, stretched (ow his fucking side sonofabitch), and checked top deck. Nobody there, but some other crews were heading out to the docks, along with some lovely ladies and gentlemen in hats. Ah, he loved Antivans. So classy and passionate. Shame he couldn’t go and charm them. Even in his ‘human’ form, nobody could miss his teeth and scales. They never left him. It was a constant reminder that he couldn’t return to the surface world even if he wanted to; he was a freak.

He scoffed at himself. He’d always been a freak. Now he just looked the part as well.

Sometimes he missed it. People, that is. Getting drunk and studying in the library past midnight. Felix, too… was he even still alive? He had no way of knowing. He could be six feet under by now, with the Blight…

He shook his head. No, he’d given that life up either way; when he left Tevinter, he’d accepted that he was giving up that lot in life. Freedom came with severing ties, even if it wasn’t quite the freedom he’d anticipated. It was best to just realize that he’d never get it back. Not Felix, nor his old life. The Pavus pariah was dead. This was what he was now and that was that.

He took a few minutes to watch the passers-by on the railing of the ship, then retreated back into the hold. Hopefully, the Chargers were intelligent enough that they had the capacity to read, and kept books _somewhere_ on their damn ship.

* * *

“And then, ‘thout breaking eye contact, she went, ‘I thought your captain was the only one with man tits’! HAHAH! She said yours were more impressive, Bull.”

“Aw, thanks Krempuff.”

“Shut it, Chief.” 

“...”

“What is it, Bull?”

“Skinner!”

“...ye, fuck ya want?!”

“Did you use Dalish’s hairbrush?”

“Ew, no! I ain’t some coddling…”

“Why do you think Skinner would be… using… oh. It’s just a stray hair, Chief, calm down. ‘Sides, we’re not missing any loot; who boards a vessel just to tidy up?”

“...”

“Do you want me to keep watch tonight?”

“If you don’t mind, Lieutenant.”

“Got it.”


	3. Why the FUCK are Dwarves So Heavy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the short chapter ^^'
> 
> Sushi time.

It was week two of his little ‘hitchhiking’ adventure when he got a fever.

It was the injury; of _course_ it was the injury. It hadn’t fucking healed yet and it hurt. The gash was red, scabbed over, for the most part, thanks to whatever Andraste-forsaken healing abilities he’d gotten. But it was hot, lined with raised skin and _why was it tingling like that, why the hell-_

And if that wasn’t bad enough, he was feverish, his head was thick, and he was starting to lose feeling in his right side: all of it. He dragged his fingers down it and past a certain point, there were just pins and needles. No sensation except tingling and that awful ache.

He gave every curse he could think of, including a few Nevarran. The qunari had poisoned him. Only explanation he could think of. He didn’t just _stab_ him, oh no, he wanted to add an extra ‘fuck you’ to the pile of fuckary. Swimming was harder. _Breathing_ was harder. Hell, last time he’d tried hunting he’d nearly passed out on a particularly hard swish of the tail. He couldn’t sleep the pain away, and it didn’t look like it was going to heal on its own.

Was it clear that he was upset?

The only thing that was keeping him from stomping up the deck and biting that Qunari’s neck for karma was fear. He was very much aware of how much trouble he was in, how weak he was compared to his usual self. He wouldn’t stand a chance against eig- _seven_ pirates, even with his magic and singing. He was a sitting duck in the water, he was a sitting duck on wood.

Sharks were not his concern right now. This wound could kill him.

If he feigned being a castaway, would that work? Pretending to be a poor human adrift at sea? ...No, The Bull would recognize him, no doubt. It was hard to forget a face like his. Curse his otherworldly beauty. 

Maybe sneaking aboard and looking for an antidote for the poison? No. One: they were no longer at port. Someone was aboard the ship at all times, and that meant if he was spotted? Instant death by cutlass. Two: He didn’t even know what the poison was, let alone if the crew had an antidote for it. It was probably a lost cause.

...Still. What choice did Dorian have? At the very least he might find a healing potion that would slow or eliminate the infection. It was his best option.

Things finally looked up for him one moonlit night. Krem ordered the crew to drop anchor. Kegs of ale were brought up to the deck, and a bonfire was started in a brazier. Some celebration was afoot. He didn’t know what it was, but it was his lucky night.

On the deck were seven people. Seven voices, seven lifeforces. One mage- pardon, _archer_ \- a dwarf, a feral elf, three humans, and one oxman. The hold was empty. He reached up to the captain’s window and slid the latch down, careful. It opened, and he slipped inside.

...Not _one_ person could be bothered to move that shirt?! It was there last time he was here!

Okay, okay, he needed to focus. The qunari had poisoned him with… something. Logically, there must be an antidote in case he poisoned himself on accident. The question was where it was stored. Bull- _the qunari_ usually slept with the rest of the crew in the hammocks. Didn’t really have his own room, despite being captain. So he might keep his stuff in the bunks. Or perhaps it was with the weaponry!

...Where _did_ they keep the weaponry?

He let out a dramatic groan and leaned on the table, suddenly worn from standing for so long. This plan was bad, very very bad, and he was _definitely_ going to get caught. The map shifted under his palm, crinkling. His nose scrunched. That was not his intent. He went to smooth it out and frowned harder at the letters under his thumb: _enatori sighting._ Curiosity won over, and he moved it.

_Last trader venatori sighting_ , the words read. Venatori? That sounded Tevene. He kept reading, following the marks and arrows with his finger. These pirates were hunting someone or something. A group, perhaps. By the meaning of the word, a band of fighters. Why, though? 

Heading north and around Rivani the arrows went, then the trail went cold, on the east coast across from Dairsmund. Perhaps he was underestimating these brutes. It was obvious now that they were hunters, possibly for hire by some organization he didn’t recognize. And seeing how well they managed their ship with such a small crew, they were talented as well. Believe him, he was just as shocked at admitting it as anyone else would be. Pirates? Intelligent? Sexy, yes, but many of them were lacking a few marbles.

He’d gotten so distracted by his musings of maps and marbles that he somehow _didn’t_ hear heavy clonking footsteps. He did hear a war-cry, however. Very loud. He calmly looked up to see four feet of dwarf barreling into his face.

There wasn’t even time to curse. _WHOMP,_ into his waist-

_BONK,_ tripping over the open windowsill-

_BANG_ , hitting his shoulder on the rim of the ship, and-

_SPLASH,_ into saltwater.

He could feel the dwarf panicking, thrashing around him, still not letting go. The motion might’ve set him off into hunting mode if the dwarf wasn’t around his waist: twisting muscle and skin, hitting sensitive hipbones and oh Maker, the wound was open again, and every time the dwarf bucked he pulled the flesh around his side, making him scream into bubbles that floated to the surface. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe-

They were sinking. Dwarves were dense. This oaf would drown himself if Dorian didn’t get a grip so he did, dry gagging into the water as he thrust his tail, righting them (the Dwarf shouted, but he scarcely noticed), then pump, pump, pump, to the surface, damn it Rocky-

His vision was swimming (hah) when they finally breached the surface. He managed to grab Rocky’s arms and yank him off, the dwarf cursing and choking on seafoam. He was _still_ struggling, the idiot, like he had a death wish.

“Shut the _FUCK_ up!” Dorian burst, before using his remaining strength to toss Rocky up towards the ship’s ledge. Hopefully, the dwarf would have enough common sense to grab on. Dorian didn’t know if he could get him up himself.

Luckily for the dwarf, someone grabbed him. Dalish, maybe. Or Skinner? No, it was Grim. Gram. Grimmy? Sweet Maker, Grim was a difficult name for him to remember. But it WAS Grim who pulled up Rocky, he was sure of it. The dwarf spit up more water as he was pulled aboard, cursing all the while. Something about ‘sea monsters’...

Oh. Rocky was gossiping about him. _How rude_ , he thought, as his tail stopped swishing and he started to sink. At least the dumbarse was okay. Yeah… that was good.

He didn’t try to fight the water anymore. He felt the numbness crawling up his throat, as if he had been screaming for hours. Sinking down into the warm, stinging water. He was tired. Something sort of sharp and hard settled onto the small of his back, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Just a quick sleep. That sounded lovely. Just a little doze, at the bottom, and the pain would lessen when he woke. 

Just… for a minute.

* * *

“I’m just saying, Chief, even if it hasn’t come up again doesn’t mean that it isn’t _there_.”

“Should’a shot it, Dalish.”

“Aye.”

“It did save Rocky’s life, even after being knocked offboard by him. Or have you forgotten, Aclassi?”

“Mmm… probably just wasn’t in the mood for dwarf.”

_“Bres-taar maraas asala.”_

“Stop mumbling, Chief, I don’t want to break out the feelings stick before we set sail.”

“...Maybe- _Andraste’s Marabi,_ Grim, don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Fish.”

“...pardon?”

“Caught a fish.”

“That’s very good, Grim. Why are you interrupting us?”

“Demon fish.”

“...”

“...”

“... _Vashedan_.”

“Where is it?”

“Anchor.”

_“Holy shit.”_


	4. Lots of Passing Out and Some Threats™

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiatus? Dunno what you're talking about :)
> 
> And yes, they fished Dorian up from the anchor, quite literally, a few hours after Rocky's rescue.

The world was passing in flashes, but he could feel himself being lifted up, water tugging at his arms as he rose.

Then the rush of air, cold, jarring, and he gasped. Moments later, his back and ankles hit wood with a dull  _ thud.  _ Dorian choked, a bit of bile rising in his throat and spilling onto the floor. It was sour and tasted like copper.

“Ah crap.”

“What the hell?! What the hell, what the hell, what the hell is that thing, shit!”

_ Look up. _ He strained and managed to lift his head up. The world swam, but the silhouette.  _ That _ was too familiar to miss. Two great horns.

“Oh,” he said, feeling like he might laugh. A detached hysteria was rising in his chest at the realization that he was  _ on the boat _ . “Hello there.”

He then decided to take a nap.

* * *

The ocean had a severe lacking of beds, so when Dorian woke up suspended on something soft, he knew that he’d struck gold and was on a bed. A stiff bed, but a bed nonetheless. And it smelled  _ lovely.  _ He had no idea who in the world would scent their pillow with spices, but he thanked them eternally and burrowed his face into it as best as he could.

“Aw fuck, that’s cute.”

He opened his mouth to inhale more of the scent. His tooth snagged the cover, leaving a tiny tear.  _ Salt and saffron. _

“...noooooot so much,” a voice whispered. “Damn sharp teeth. You’re sure Rocky’s not clogged over the head?”

“Positive. Captain insisted as well. We’re keeping him.”

“ ‘Keeping him’? What, like in a tank?”

“Beats me.”

He groaned, because they were being too loud, and nodded off again.

* * *

Something was pressing into the wound in his side. In his panicked, drug-drowsy state, the only thing he could think to do was fight back. Hiss and screech, scratch, kick and thrash. Scream, because he knew his scream was horrifying and whoever was holding him down would let go if they heard it.

They did. Arms free, he rolled over, then promptly fell off the bed and passed out before he hit the floor.

* * *

The next time he awoke, it was to whistling. It was a merry sound that had him squinting. The other Tevinter- Cremisius- was sitting on a stool next to the cot he was on, sewing something. It looked like a little pink creature with button eyes. Horribly domestic.

The cot creaked when he moved to look better. Cremisius snapped to attention. “Ah, you’re awake. Good.” He stood up, taking his plush with him, and pointed. “Don’t move.”

Dorian blinked, because he felt like he had just been crushed by a boulder and thinking was hard. Cremisius left, and he was alone for about two minutes, staring at the ceiling until Stitches and The Bull appeared in the doorway. Stitches was fearless and walked right in. Bull, on the other hand, was looking at him funny; which was fair, because less than a month ago they’d tried to kill each other. For some reason, the image of Bull standing dumbly in the doorway, horns scraping the sides, made him chuckle. Then he hissed, side flaring in pain.

“Lay down,” Stitches said, already grabbing his shoulders and pushing him down. Dorian let out a short breath. He was glad he could feel his side, but it was throbbing like a stubbed toe, a pulsing raw vein. The man’s fingers ghosted over bandages on his side, thankfully blood-free, starting to unravel them. His own talons twitched. The human was a little to close for his liking. “My name is Stitches. I’m the surgeon on this ship. Do you have a name?”

Funny, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d given his name to anyone. He almost had to think about it for a moment. “Dorian.”

“Well, Dorian, you’re lucky we hauled you up when you did,” Stitches continued. “You were running a nasty fever from the wound in your side. Vitaar infection. No idea how you survived this long with that stuff in your system, but you should thank Andraste that you still have your right arm.”

He pushed the initial shock of almost losing a limb aside and glared at the brute who, in his mind, was responsible for this mess. The qunari had the gall to look insulted. “Hey; don’t look at me like that;  _ you _ attacked  _ me _ .”

“And  _ you’re _ the idiot who thought it would be an excellent fucking idea to go for a dip in the middle of the ocean,” he snipped. His voice was cracking from thirst and he was sore all over, so forgive him for being in a mood. 

The Bull growled, veins popping in his wrists. “Oh, you are so lucky you’re on bed rest,” he said, striding over to the cot with a finger pointed at Dorian. “Got a lot of nerve following us after that stunt.”

“Oh trust me, death by shark frenzy is not the way to go. I’d much rather be choked out by a rancid oxman who thinks-”

“This will hurt,” Stitches interrupted. That was the only warning he got before the man prodded at his side. Dorian yelped, more out of surprise than anything, but the effect was immediate. It was sudden and screeching. Stitches full-body shuddered and pushed away, chair scraping against the floor. Bull just grit his teeth and did his best (and failed) to hide his flinch. 

“Apologies,” said Dorian, because what else could he say while being stared at by that giant. His heart was skipping around in his gilled ribcage, the traitor. There was something exciting about finally being in some sort of peril, after years and years of being the predator. It was almost… soothing? Could that be a thing? Soothing adrenaline?

Bull cleaned out his ear with a pinkie, not breaking eye contact with Dorian. Dorian just looked at him. The Bull just ground his jaw. “Hurt my crew, and I’ll turn you inside out. Are we clear?”

“Oh, trust me,” he said, laughing with dry humor. “I have no interest in your little merry band.” And it was true: he didn’t. Not really. They all seemed sort of dull compared to the qunari before him. Dare he say, boring.

His vague remark earned him a good four-second look-over from The Bull, before he turned and left. Dorian felt smug, but only for a second, because now the qunari was gone. Stitches scooted back in. “If you would mind not screaming again...”

* * *

He dozed peacefully, but was woken not so peacefully by a knife’s pommel hitting him in the head. 

“So what are ya?” Skinner asked as he exclaimed  _ “ow!”  _ “Demon? Shem? Fish?”

“As far as I can venture, I’m all three,” he said, rubbing the back of his head. “And you hit me for what? Curious to see if I would sprout horns at the contact?”

Skinner spit to the side (not on him, thank god, just the floor), not answering. Dorian wrinkled his nose. “Glad you know you respect your captain’s vessel so.”

The elf bared her teeth at him like some feral cat. “You don’t scare me.”

“Excellent. Then shall we do this like civilized people?”

Her knife was implanted on the wall right next to his left cheek. He jumped a bit. Like he’d mused with The Bull, this crew was the most exciting thing that had happened to him in ages. They were fearless and not afraid to shove sharp things in his face. He liked it. Better than the initial ‘screaming in terror’ he’d gotten when he was on deck the first time. “Again with the whole ‘respect the ship’ thing.”

“Right then,  _ Dorian,” _ Skinner spat out the name like it tasted bad. “Why were ya following us?”

He weighed the pros and cons of answering, and decided to be as bluntly honest as possible. He was getting tired again. The fever was still grasping at him with sluggish tendrils. “Well first it was to avoid sharks; your captain managed to get a good hit on me, and I wasn’t keen on being food for some big fish.”

Skinner mumbled something about ‘similar’, which he, for her sake, decided to ignore. 

“After that, though...I suppose it was curiosity. I’d never quite seen a qunari before, nevermind a qunari with a crew. I tagged along for a bit, listened in to a few conversations. Then the wound started festering. By that point I was too weak to risk leaving outside my territory.”

The elf just nodded as if that made sense. Her lips were pressed into a thin line. “Yer stupid.”

“Charmed.”

“Suppose Capt’n will want to hear that from you, though I doubt it’ll make a difference in his mind. Ye  _ did _ try to kill each other from what I hear.”

“Yes, well… that was when it was more of a cat and mouse game. A very short one, at that.”

Sneering. She did that a lot, from what he could tell. She yanked out her knife and flipped it towards him in a show of threatening him. “One wrong fucking move, and your dead, shem.”

“Wouldn’t think otherwise, Skinner.”

Her scowl deepened at her name, and she left the room, slamming the door behind him. Dorian was left wondering if being flippant was  _ really  _ the best course of options here.

* * *

His fever rose again. Stitches flitted over him, a near-constant presence. Dorian didn’t care. He was too hot and all the doctor seemed to be doing was tossing more blankets over Dorian every time he managed to kick them off. 

Stitches held something to his lips and told him to drink, and Dorian refused for all of five seconds before the doctor grabbed his jaw and all but forced it down. It tasted bad. Water washed it down, clean freshwater. He switched the bandages, putting some paste over the wound. He nearly vomited again at the sensation of cold salve on skin, on raw muscle, it  _ hurt _ …

Swaddle his side up in linen again, and he started to slip under the heat. Stitches cursed, and that was the last word he heard for a long while. The ship rocked below; without Dorian to keep them steady, the waves were free to batter the hull as they pleased. The creaking of wood was not soothing, nor was the motion. Eventually, though, he fell asleep to visions of cold, dark depths, and saltwater flooding his lungs...


End file.
